The Books Were Wrong
by OnceMistress
Summary: "There's a boy in the other room, his name is Chas Kramer." again, he exhaled, and Lucifer only grinned wider as the tendrils of smoke licked past his face and dissipated into the air, "Bring him back." JohnChas


**Title: **The Books Were Wrong  
**Rating: **T (for now)  
**Summary: **"There's a boy in the other room, his name is Chas Kramer." again, he exhaled, and Lucifer only grinned wider as the tendrils of smoke licked past his face and dissipated into the air, "Bring him back." JohnChas  
**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**A/N: **First time writing a Constantine fic and I'm still not sure how I feel about it. Basically, I've made a couple _minor_changes and brought our beloved Chas back from the grave. JohnChas is simply irresistible, I'm sorry to anyone who disagrees. To be honest, I have no idea _where_ I want this story to go...so if anyone has ideas, feel free to share through review, etc. Oh, and my punctuation and sentence structure are laughable, so I'll apologise ahead of time.

Nonetheless, please enjoy.

* * *

"Yeah, whadda'ya want…?" came the whining drawl of Satan himself, looming over John Constantine like a cat inspecting a bird whose wing has been brutally snapped. Like a bird, John was helpless before him. Helpless to any type of torture the wrinkled man wished to administer, and the devil knew this. He grinned, yellow teeth glinting in the flickering fluorescent lights.

As quick as the malicious grin appeared, it vanished, and Lucifer was prodding at John's limp leg with his bare, tar-covered foot.

"Extension…?" he offered, low and mocking, as if he knew Constantine would be the one to ask of such a thing and that he _knew _that no matter how much more time John asked more, it would be impossible for him to ever make his way back to heaven.

John Constantine's soul was _damned._

Constantine laughed lowly, hoarsely, without humor. He held his dwindling cigarette to his lips, fingers trembling as he took another slow draw from it. As far as he was concerned, he had all the time in the world. Slowly, regrettably, he met the devil's eyes and spoke deliberately as if he had been thinking about how to say this for a while now, which in all honesty, he had.

"There's a boy in the other room." he began, letting out a long stream of smoke with an exhaling breath.

The devil smiled and drummed his fingers against the chair he was leaning on. He spoke quickly, constantly mocking in tone, ever present smile that was far from charming.

"Yes, John, I know that, friend of yours?"

He snorted and pushed the chair away from himself roughly, causing it to clatter and break against the far wall on the other side of the room. Neither man flinched as it splintered and crunched against broken glass.

Satan knelt beside John, feet unaffected by the shards of glass and twin pools of blood surrounding him. Constantine took another draw from his cigarette and then leaned his head back against the shattered door behind him, meeting the older-looking man's gaze.

Again, he exhaled, and Lucifer only grinned wider as the tendrils of smoke licked past his face and dissipated into the air.

"C'mon, _John_, I don't have all _day._" he snickered, leaning in close and plucking the cigarette from Constantine's lips, only to extinguish it in the thickening blood below them.

Now that the time to make a decision was here, Constantine found himself hesitating, but not because he was scared. He wasn't scared of dying. He was scared of choosing the wrong thing to die _for. _The devil was already in debt to him. He had him by the 'short and curly's', for lack of a better phrase, and in reality he could have anything. Anything at all.

He _could_ have extension, more time to try and make his way back into heaven. More time to save people from monsters they didn't understand and help people who were never very grateful. He could have Angela's sister sent to heaven. Surely she didn't deserve to rot in hell for trying to escape a world she didn't choose to be in. She had been plagued with nightmares, and with the ability to _see_ the things that hid under your bed and in corners of rooms…

"He's dead." John muttered, and his fingers already itched for another cigarette.

"Well, aren't we observant? Very good, _John_, do you want a-"

"Bring him back."

The devil's grin faltered and then vanished altogether, quickly being replaced by a tight-lipped frown. He roughly gripped the dying man's jaw and forced him closer. He looked into his eyes, searching.

"You're willing to sacrifice yourself so a punk exorcist can live another _day?_"

He sounded disappointed, as if he expected him to choose something more 'important' to die for. The thought made John snarl visibly, and just like that, he made up his mind. Chas _was_ important and didn't deserve to die. He hadn't even _chosen_ to die like Angela's sister had. Surely he was more worthy.

John nodded, "Yes."

That was when Satan tossed his head back in a howl of laughter, a howl that seemed to shake the very room.

He took a loud, raspy breath, as if he had been laughing so hard his stomach ached and then grew deathly quiet. His voice echoed about the room, bouncing off the walls and never _really_ disappearing. It was like someone had pulled the plug on a blaring stereo.

"Honestly, John, I expected more from you."

Constantine breathed out another low chuckle and allowed himself to smirk, cold lips cracking with the action. He sighed quietly and tilted his head back against the door once again with a dull thud. He really _was_ willing to die for the punk exorcist who followed him around and wouldn't listen to directions. Who was only experienced through the hundreds of books he read. Who asked too many questions, who looked at everything through wide, curious eyes. Who was a royal pain in his ass.

Who saved _his_ life multiple times.

John wasn't one to second-guess himself and he wasn't going to start now.

"_Do it._" he grit out.

Lucifer raised his hands in defense, grin still plastered upon his face. He stood, cuffs of his pants, by now, thoroughly saturated with Constantine's blood, and fitted his hands into his pockets. Looking down at him, he seemed almost amused at John's choice, and tossed his head back once more in a deep inhale- snapping it forward seconds later.

"Okay, it's done. He's alive in the other room now."

Satan lowered his voice for obvious drama and cracked a smile, "Time to go, John."

Then, before Constantine had time to answer or try to get to his feet without the help of his lacerated wrists, the devil snatched up one of them, slick with blood, and began _literally_ pulling him to hell. Lucifer had always been a fan of drama.

He was _whistling_.

Constantine winced as the cuts on his wrists rubbed against the other man's palm but forced himself to remain silent. If he was to go to hell, then so be it, he would go without a fight or struggle…and he _certainly_ wasn't going to show any pain. This was his decision.

He felt his back hit something and he wondered it Lucifer was just messing with him, hitting him against things _just_ to humiliate him before sending him to eternal punishment for taking his own life so many years ago and again, today. But the hand on his wrist tightened and the pain increased.

Constantine then realized that the cold object behind his back was the floor itself, crackling and folding up as if it were being smashed into an imaginary wall.

Something was holding him back.

The doors Constantine had been leaning against not minutes before flew open and the room was suddenly filled with light. He winced and soon had to close his eyes at the intensity of it. It was practically inhuman.

The pain in his wrists was gone.

John didn't realize he was floating until he heard a roar behind him.

"_No!"_ it was Lucifer, "This one…belongs to_ me!"_

There was a hand around Constantine's waist and another around his throat. Satan was at his ear, whispering, biting even, words he couldn't make out. And then his shirt was torn open and the blinding light began to flicker as an excruciating pain ripped through his chest.

It was horrible and he couldn't stop the cries of raw pain that were being torn from his throat. For a moment, he wondered it he would pass out. For a moment, he wished he would, anything to escape the raw scraping and burning in his very lungs. Like someone was scratching their fingernails along the inside of his ribcage.

In what felt like hours, but in reality was only minutes, the light was gone and Constantine found himself face down on the cold tile of the room he recently _died_ in. He was on the verge of throwing up and his head was spinning.

"You'll live, John Constantine…" Lucifer hissed, standing above him with a tar-like substance dripping from between his fingers, "You. Will. Live…"

And he was gone, leaving Constantine cold and shuddering, confused out of his mind, wrists healed, and lungs cleared of cancer.

After a few minutes, the exorcist crawled to his feet and took a deep breath. It felt nice. He buttoned up his shirt with newly-steady fingers and reveled in the fact that his throat didn't itch with the burn of an oncoming coughing fit. It was all…very nice.

Constantine's ears perked at the sound of movement in the other room. He tensed and stood up straighter, glancing at the closed doors to the pool.

_Angela._

John's brow furrowed as he walked swiftly towards them, mind racing. Was she still alive? Was she injured? Was the devil's son really gone? Where was Gabriel? Where was-?

"…John?" came a soft, raspy voice, like the voice of someone who had been sleeping for years.

Half-way through the doors, the exorcist paused and took a moment to just _listen_. He had to make sure that his own ears weren't deceiving him.

"H-hey, John… Hey, what's going on?"

Chas sounded frazzled and out of breath, like he had forgotten momentarily how to use his own lungs, how to function in a living body again, even if he had only been dead for about an hour.

It was at that moment that it began to sink in.

Chas was alive, and the devil had held up his end of the deal.

Chas spoke up again, voice shakier than before, he was beginning to sound panicked. It was almost as if he was afraid this wasn't real, or that he was still dead and was stuck somewhere between heaven and hell. Some twisted sort of purgatory.

"_John?_" he asked, taking a few steps towards him.

"_John!_ John, hey, say something! Can you _see_ me?"

"I see you, Chas." John finally mumbled and then, to prove it, glanced over at the young man, still clad in his baggy jacket and worn blue jeans.

Constantine wondered why he expected him to be wearing anything other than the clothes he _died_ in. He looked just the same, seemed to be acting just the same. Short, curly brown hair still dusted his forehead, coat still hung on his shoulders, much too big for him. His shoulders still hunched slightly, a habit of most tall teenagers, and his feet still shuffled too close to each other in worn tennis shoes. There was still a trail of dried blood below his nose.

Chas let out a loud, relieved breath and ran a hand through his hair. He took a couple more steps towards John, "I-good. Okay, good. John- John, what the _hell_ is going on? I…"

He glanced back at the large dent in the tile where he was laying lifeless not long ago. The squares surrounding the hole were cracked and shattered and Chasknew that no teenage boy could've survived that type of impact. Hesitantly, he let his gaze raise to the ceiling and winced. There was a body shaped hole there too.

"Did I…?"

Constantine ignored the implied question, he would explain that later. Maybe.

And then his eyes landed on Angela.

Or, rather, what was _left_ of Angela.

Her eyes were wide and glazed over and her mouth and nose were bleeding. Her skin that was visible was a ghastly shade of purple and red, completely covered in bruises. Her hair was matted and if John looked, which he didn't want to, he's sure there would be a deep cut on the back of her head. It was all morbid beyond reason.

He stood above her, looking down at her mangled and broken body, and then knelt. From under his chilled fingers, her skin was colder. Her pulse was nonexistent. At length, he sighed.

"Is she still breathing?"

Chas kept his distance from Angela's body, seeking refuge behind John as if he could protect him from the sight of her, and Constantine briefly wondered if the kid had ever seen a dead person before.

If this was true, he was taking it very well for his first time. Though, he was probably still too shocked for it to really sink in just yet. Hopefully, its effects wouldn't reappear after the initial shock wore off. Constantine had never been very good at consoling.

He remembered patting awkwardly at the backs of crying women, scared out of their minds and unsure how to react with the new information of demons and devils. Eventually, he would leave, doing more harm than help, leaving the impression that he was a cold-hearted bastard.

…which, in all honesty, wasn't far from the truth.

The sound of pouring water could be heard and Chas had grown quiet. John looked up from Angela's lifeless face.

Gabriel emerged from the pool, holding John's gun to her abdomen. She was covered in what looked like soot and her white uniform clung to her shapeless body as she walked up the steps at the shallow end. Upon closer inspection, John noticed that her wings were gone. No, gone was an understatement. They had been burned _off_. He could only assume that the half-breed had fallen, no longer protected and supported by her beloved God.

"Gabriel…" he muttered bitterly, betting slowly to his feet.

"She's not breathing, is she?" the fallen angel asked, head tilting to the side as she watched Angela from the pool.

John remained silent, frown set deeply in his brow. He didn't look back down at the dead woman's body and instead focused on staring Gabriel down. Hatred bubbled in his gut.

"You should've _known _this would happen, John. Her body was torn through an entire building. She was dropped through a window, two stories." she looked at him like he was a bumbling _idiot_, like he should've expected this would happen, "She was drowned in this very pool! _Surely_ you didn't think that once the devil's spawn was removed from her body that she would be able to _survive._"

Gabriel sighed and stepped out of the pool, walking over to John with an expression that could only be described as pity, "Oh, John, you've let your emotions cloud your judgment. How very…" she paused, tilting her head down in a mocking gesture, "_…amateur."_

Lips twitching, John fought back the onslaught of profanities that threatened to pour from his mouth. He wondered how an _angel_, half-breed or not, could do something so despicable, _fail_, and then have the nerve to scold him for hoping the woman he was trying to help and preferably _save_ had survived the wrath of Hell itself. It was all so…

"_Revenge._" Gabriel breathed, eyes lighting up in eerie fascination, "Is that what you're thinking about, _right now?_"

Constantine hesitated. It wasn't an unreasonable assumption on Gabriel's part, he _was_ considering the different possibilities in which he could kill her. But now that she mentioned it, the idea seemed to grow sour in his mind.

"Then do it, _kill me._" She stood closer to him, holding the large gun, muzzle to her stomach, "You have the power, John. It's up to you, it's always been up to you."

She sounded pleased, as if she _wanted_ to die, as if anything was better than being a pitiful human for the rest of her newly mortal life. She was smiling, watching John and the gun expectantly, waiting for the shot to sound and the curtains to fall.

Almost bitterly, John snatched up his gun by the handle, supporting its weight with his other hand. He watched Gabriel's face through searching eyes, considering the pros and cons of blowing her innards _out_. It was a decision made difficult when altered by his conflicting emotions, a whirlwind of 'yes' and 'no'. Eventually, though, he decided she didn't _deserve_ to die.

But not because he wanted to spare her, no, John Constantine wanted her to suffer as much as humanly possible…by living her life as a human. John almost smiled, he'd never considered letting someone _live_ a punishment until now. In fact…

John dropped his gun to his side, holding it with one hand and with his newly freed one, drew back and decked the angel hard across the face. Her head jerked to the side violently and her body wavered on the spot. At length, her face contorted in pain, a foreign feeling finally sinking in through previously dormant nerves.

"It's called pain," John spat, lowering his fist and watching as Gabriel brought a trembling hand to her bleeding mouth, "get used to it."

With that, he turned and headed the way he came, ignoring Angela's body, still sprawled lifeless across the pale tile. He knew the city would respond to the fire alarm eventually and would find her.

He didn't remember being squeamish before.

"You could've _shot_ me, John!" Gabriel called after him, "Look how well you're doing!"

A bit too roughly, John pushed open the doors to the main hall of the hospital. He headed to the parking garage where he hoped his car would still be sitting, unharmed. He breathed out a quiet sigh.

Too wrapped up in his thoughts, John didn't notice as Chas jogged beside him, struggling to keep up with his brisk steps. He was still very quiet, still processing everything that had transpired in the last hour or so.

He wondered if all the books were this wrong.


End file.
